Flip Flop
by Kyoshi7989
Summary: Maybe in another lifetime, things would be better. Maybe in another lifetime, it wouldn't be like this. Maybe in another lifetime, you'd be mine... AU Zutara drabbles
1. Acceptance in Allegiance

**Drabbles Series Title:** Flip Flop

**Drabble Title:** Acceptance in Allegiance

**Description:** He was Zuko, son of Ozai, and normally Katara would have done all in her power to leave him dead. How strange, she mused, that she no longer seemed to care.

**Warnings:** Character death; AU (no bending)

**A/N: **Okay, to make stuff clear--in this universe Katara and Zuko have never met, and he's more like his Ba Sing Se/Western Air Temple self deep down, although it takes a lot for him to show it. Anyway, Aang was killed about three weeks ago, and of course Katara was crushed--she even killed Ozai in her fury--so she it is, in fact, still very torn up about it, even if she isn't crying and moping around 24/7.

Oh, and when I say AU, I mean, well, ANYTHING. Like our world; Harry Potter world; or alterations on their lives in the avatar world. So readers, prepare for one wild ride...On with the Zutara!

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_Paint_.

It felt cool beneath to her soft skin as she ran her fingers over the brick wall, stained and dripping with a thousand different hopes and dreams and a thousand more already covered in a new layer of soot and sweat.

_It feels good_. A faint smile graced her lips as she remembered who had first said that so long ago, and who now was going to be remember--she'd make sure of it.

Stepping away from the wall, Katara surveyed the drawings with an artist's eye. Part of her wanted to say, _graffiti; this is illegal, what you're about to do_, but she brushed it off as she reached into her canvas bag, withdrawing four cans of spray paint.

_It goes here._

It was more of a premonition than an actual thought, she noted, taking another few steps back as she plucked the first can from her stash and began shaking it back and forth to prepare for the painting. The spot she had chosen had obviously been used the most; it had been used over and over again for countless different uses--a young teen eager to leave her mark; an advertiser with a liking for flare; a sad and broken boy who wanted his dead sister to have her own memorial.

He would have liked it, Katara decided, as she pressed down the nozzle of the spray paint can and the concentrated paint began doing it job, fumes filling the already smog inhabited air. Aang would have wanted himself to live on in this way; just another coating that would soon blend in with the rest--after all, he'd never once implied that he was special for who he was--or what he was meant to do.

The paint flew out against the wall as she went about creating the intricate design. Katara remained solely focused on the task at hand, going through the process over and over again until the wall and the paint bled together. As the can sputtered, finally coming to a slow halt, she tossed it to the ground with a loud clank, quickly reaching for the next can.

Four times she went through the process, each with a different symbol. As she worked, the sun set through the dirty haze of pollution and the street lights flickered on, unbeknownst to the girl now blocking everything but the paint cans and new graffiti out. When Katara looked up again, she didn't blink; it was quite normal to get lost in an art for her, but it was a bit surprising to know that she had lost herself even in knowing the risk she faced after doing this.

Leaning back to observe her painting, the dark haired girl nodded in approval. It was only a moment later that she felt the prescence of another person and a pair of eyes boring into the back of her head.

Turning around curiously, Katara saw a man maybe a few years older than here--probably in his late teens to early twenties--leaning against a nearby telephone her and looking at her warily.

There was a long silence as they both contemplated the presence of the other. Finally, the boy said, voice quiet but hoarse, "I've been here the entire time."

"I know." Katara lied, shaken as she realized he could just as easily have been a cop. There was another pause as he straightened up a bit, eyes now meeting hers directly.

"I'm Zuko."

"Katara." Why, she wondered, furrowing her brow, did that scar look so familiar? Many gangs in the city used burns or tattoos to initiate their fellow members, but it seemed a bit extreme to belmish half their face in doing so. Once again, a heavy quiet descended upon them, until Zuko finally broke it with one of the strangest, yet simple, inquiries she'd ever been subject to.

"Why?" Looking back, it was a simple enough question. Katara could have told him she was part of a gang; an advertiser for a clothing store; anything. It would have been easy to lie and say she'd just been looking for some fun, or that she was just messing around with some wacked ancient pictures in her history textbook.

But for whatever reason, when Katara heard that word, she froze up. Staring at him, her mouth opened and shut soundlessly. Why, indeed? Why? Why? _Why_?  
"Well? Are you going to answer?" he asked impatiently, gaze still level with hers. The corner of his mouth twitching at her shocked expression, Zuko exhaled slowly. Stretching, he took a few steps forward.

Katara blanched. "Stay away from me, you creep!"

"I'm not a creep," he snapped, brushing his black hair out of his eyes. "This wall _is_ public property, it I'm correct." Zuko veered away from her, ending up about five feet down and relaxed against the wall, although, judging by his scowl, slightly irritated. "There, happy?" he mumbled, appearing subdued at his outburst.

Jerking her head to face him, Katara said hesitantly, "I'm sorry I froze up at your question."

Neither of them talked for what seemed like forever, Zuko still in his nonchalant position and Katara fidgeting as she waited for a response.

Suddenly, something clicked. "Your question. Right. I painted those--the signs for the four elements, and the four gangs that run this city--for my friend. He was supposed to...unite them. Well, that's what he wanted to do."

He raised an eyebrow.

Folding her hands across her abdomen and closing her eyes briefly, not as a gesture of sorrow but one of respect, Katara replied simply, "He died."

Zuko didn't say anything, but merely nodded, as if he had known all along; and, in some way, she supposed he had.

The silence that came next was far from comfortable, but it had lost the awkwardness and abruptness of before. Katara wordlessley began to collect the now empty paint cans. As she stuffed the third into her bag and reached for the last, she felt her heart jolt as Zuko's hand closed around her wrist.

"What is it?" She whispered softly, eyes wide.

"Wait," he replied simply, picking up the can himself and giving it a shake with the air of someone that had done it for a long time. Moving away from the graffiti covered bricks, he raised the paint can level with her painting, and began spraying. Amazed, Katara watched him as, in deep conentration, he added something to the picture--something she'd forgotten.

"The circle," she breathed, glancing at him as he dropped the can to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot before handing it back to her. "Thank you," Katara added, almost as an afterthought. "I guess--I guess I forgot." A circle, to unite the four, and the city; a circle for Aang--it was strange that it was this near stranger to finally complete it.

For a moment, she wondered if he was angry at her for forgetting, or maybe at loss for a reply to her sincere gratitude. Frantically searching for words, Katara was just about to burst out a hasty apology and bolt for it when--

Zuko smiled. This time it wasn't bitter or sad or any of the other variations she'd pictured on his face; it was a true, genuine, _smile_. "You're good."

A grin seemed to break through from inside out until Katara could no longer conceal it. It was a wonder that of all things, this man--this _Zuko_--would be the first to bring her out of her shell since Aang's death; would be the first to show her how to be happy once again.

That's when a missing piece of information seemed to slide into her brain--the scar, the brooding demeanor; it all screamed of the rumors revolving around Zuko, son of Ozai--leader of the Sons and Daughters of Fire, the gang raging war on the rest of the city--and banished from ever setting foot in their territory again at the young age of thirteen.

A month ago, Katara would have attacked him without a second though, remembering all the rumors they heard of a banished gang member seeking out the one that called himself 'Avatar'; the one to unite the four. A week ago, Katara would have fought to the death in order to avenge the murder of Aang, if only to kill the son of the man responsible.

Yesterday, she would have been bent on cold-blooded murder.

_Today was different._

How very strange it was, Katara mused as his smile grew wider and wider, how, even after all this time, she no longer seemed to care.

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	2. Haunted

**Drabbles Series Title:** Flip Flop

**Drabble Title:** Haunted

**Description:** Of all the ghosts in the world, Katara fumed silently, glaring at the dead boy, of _all_ the ghosts in the world, it _had_ to be this one.

**Warnings:** dead guys

**A/N:** In this one, Katara can see ghosts. Don't ask why--she just...can. She's about eleven or twelve years old, I'd say, and Zuko's around thirteen. All that stuff from Zuko in the beginning is just a tough guy actm if it seems OOC...He died in a fire and was scarred in the same fire (his dad started it with a burning cigarette butt). So...um...I think that's everything! Hope you like it!

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The rhythmic patter of excited footsteps echoed through the house as Katara rushed up the stairs, her own footsteps muffled by the fuzzy white carpet. The handle of her blue duffle bag was clutched tightly in her hand and a determined look shone on the young girls face as one phrase echoed in her head: _Find a room before Sokka does._

Now taking the steps two at a time, Katara hurtled around the corner between her and a long corridor of doors. Eyes narrowing, she sped up a little as she focused on her target: _The bedroom at the end of the hall_. The bedroom with the blue wallpaper and the bay window and the view of their new neighborhood and the room soon to be hers.

Eyes gleaming as she approached the door, Katara's right hand closed around the brass doorknob. Smirking triumphantly, she let her bag drop, through open the door--

--and promptly screamed.

"_What the hell_?" Gaping, she stared at the transparent boy poised gracefully on an equally transparent bed, hand cupped around his ear as he leaned in to an old fashioned radio. A scar that had once been inflamed, she guessed, from it's rather grotesque look, stretched across his face. He was clothed in only a plain white t-shirt and jeans, she noted, implying that his era of death had been at least within the last twenty years.

"Be quiet," he snapped, motioning to Katara irritadely, "I'm trying to listen."

Ignoring him, she groaned, slapping her forehead, "Oh _no_, not _again_..." Pausing, she inquired, forcing herself to be polite so he would _leave_ already, "Are you dead?"  
Eyes still glued to the radio she supposed had somehow died with him, he replied scathingly, "I wonder."

Gritting her teeth, Katara hurried on, "There's a priest down the road that can help you pass on, if you wish."

Jerking his head upward, the dead boy scowled back at her. "Been there, done that. Will you be quiet, please? I'm trying to listen to the game in Fenway Park." Focusing back on the faint hum the radio emmitted (some sort of ghostly radio cast that only he could hear, Katara supposed), there was a moment of silence.

Finally, she asked, forcing herself not to bark it out, "What's your name?"

"Zuko. Shut up."

Biting back a sharp remark about the cynism of young dead spirits these days, Katara coninued, "That's quite rude, you know."

For a moment, something that might have been a faint reminiscent smile graced his pale face. "I know."

At last, Katara couldn't take it anymore. "Will you _please_ get out of my _room_?"

"Ah, you mean _my_ room," Zuko acknowledged, cocking his head smugly as steam poured out of the ghost-seeing girl's ears.

"No, I mean _my_ room," she retorted stoicly.

"Well, _I_ died in here," he retorted, distaste flickering across his face at the presumably unpleasant memory, "So I think I'm entitled to inhabiting it."

Katara sighed. "I need _some_where to put my clothes, you know."

Zuko didn't answer.

"I need to put my bed in here, eventually."

Silence.

"And this is also the place where I'll have to get dressed every morning."

Zuko eyed her strangely. "Does that imply what I think it does?"

"Oh, shut up, you pervert," Katara hissed, blushing furiously.

He let out a long breath. "I suppose that neither of us will be leaving anytime soon." With a snap of his fingers, the single bed and radio vanished in a shimmer of ghostly light.

"So you'll leave?" she asked, hardly daring to breathe.

"Nope." He let out a long sigh, drifting down to rest on the floor, legs crossed. The young ghost stared out the window forlornly, fingering his tattered and threadbare jeans.

Brow furrowed, she saw him deflate from the confident attitude he'd assumed earlier to miserable state of wretched and unwanted existence. It almost made her fell...well, _sorry_ for the kid.

Katara hesitated, torn. Finally, she settled with, "Is something...err...wrong?"

"No." Zuko continued staring at the transparent glass panes with a hard determination.

"I think something _is_ wrong," she replied knowlingly, plopping down on the floor and scooting up beside him with only a touch of uncertainty.

He let out a muffled "hmph." Dropping his gaze to the floor, Zuko exmained his finger nails, brooding. At last, he mumbled, so indiscernably that she nearly couldn't hear, "Don't see why."

Katara raised an eyebrow, now genuinely interested, countered with, "Don't see why what?"

Zuko scowled. "Why I'm like this."

"Ah...you mean your...ghost-dom?" She asked skeptically. Most she'd met were perfectly happy with their state of being, but then again, most ghosts she met tended to have certain...er...eccentricites.

"Yeah." There was a long silence.

Finally, Katara inquired, still confused, "So you don't see why you're a ghost when other people are able to move on; is that what you're saying?" Zuko gave a noncommital grunt as Katara sighed.

When it was obvious he wasn't going to elaborate, she finally managed to get out, "I'm...er...sorry...Zuko."

He only looked at her suspiciously, mouth glued shut.

Exhaling once, Katara rosed to her feet. "Well...I'll go get my stuff." If she was going to get him to move on, she might have to fetch some sort of counselor. Her conscience would _never_ let her rest if she didn't "take care" of her 'mediating duties' at least this once... Just as she was reaching for the doorknob, however, there was a sound from behind her.

"I'm glad."

Turning around curiously to observe the dead boy that had just spoken, Katara pursued, "About what?"

"That it's you."

Jolting back in surprise, eyes wide, Katara stared at him as he continued looking at the wall resolutely. _Did he just...say that?_ Smiling at him, she gave him watch she hoped was an appreciative glance. Yeah, sure he was a pain in the neck--and damn annoying too--but maybe...maybe her mediating duties could wait. "I am, too, Zuko. That's it's you, I mean."

There were no words to describe Katara's surprise when she realized she wasn't lying.


End file.
